Esse Percipi
by labyrinthine
Summary: To be is to be perceived.


TITLE: Esse Percipi 

AUTHOR: labyrinthine

SUMMARY: To be is to be perceived.

RATING: R for occasional bad language/vignette.

SPOILERS: general for Within/Without, nothing specific. I took the liberty of assuming that Scully's pregnancy was such that she wouldn't be visibly pregnant in November.

DISTRIBUTION: I would be thrilled -just let me know where so I could visit.

FEEDBACK: elabyrinthine@yahoo.com - this piece means a lot to me, I'd love to know what your thoughts are on it.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything here - XF or philosophy stuff, none of it's mine.

NOTES: Oodles of love and thanks to Missy J (for smartassed yet very appreciated corrections) and Hillary (the mean PA who asked the tough questions). Indirect thanks to Philosophy 307...who knew how inspiring lecture could actually be? This is a repost from last year - I wanted to get all my fic up at ff.net.

"Methinks I am like a man, who having struck on many shoals, and having narrowly escaped ship-wreck in passing a small frith, has yet the temerity to put out to sea in the same leaky weather-beaten vessel, and even carries his ambition so far as to think of compassing the globe under these disadvantageous conditions." -David Hume, "Treatise of Human Nature"

* * * * *

I peer closer at the reflection; the face that is presented before me does not initially register as my own. The mirror cannot lie - it must be me, and it is a mild shock to realize that this is the face I have presented to the world as of late. My flushed, almost shiny skin can be attributed to too many hours spent under the Arizona sun, and I can attest to sleepless nights resulting in raccoon eyes. But the set of the jaw, the fine line of the lips, eyes that seem to hold nothing but weary resignation - do those really belong to me? I call to mind the obvious explanation, but Mulder's disappearance and the efforts for his search couldn't have altered me so completely in so little time...they couldn't have. As my thoughts turn to Mulder I shut my eyes abruptly to the maelstrom of emotions that surface, ending my inspection in the mirror, and step out of the bathroom.

As I glance around my apartment, my eye catches the framed photo standing out in the emptiness of my desk's surface. I'm still waiting for the requisition to go through for a new laptop. As I walk closer, I realize that the room lighting and glass angle in the frame combine to let me see my reflection superimposed over the family portrait. I stop short, comparing the smiling, fifteen-year-old Dana to the shadowy representation of my face through the glass, and wonder if my younger self would even recognize the woman I have become.

I catch myself looking at my reflection more often these days. It's not a matter of vanity; I don't search out mirrors or make conscious decisions to continually evaluate my outward appearance. It'll be an unusually sunny day and I'll pull down the visor in the car when stopped in traffic only to find myself looking into the mirror, or abstractly staring out a window to find myself reflected in the glass. It happens by surprise, but the moment always lasts. I look into my image and search for clues. Is this what people see when they see me? Is this who I am now?

* * * * *

Walking into the office, I take in the state around me. After seven years of organized chaos, I find myself startled every morning as I enter to a tidy and presentable workspace. Well, as presentable as a basement corner with no windows and a janitorial closet across the hall can be. Traces of Mulder's presence linger - his nameplate and slide projector spring to mind - but the office has been transformed nonetheless. About the only thing that *has* remained constant is the work ethic of the man I now share this space with - Doggett is no Mulder, but they both must run on the same internal clock: there is no other way to explain how Doggett can look as if he's been working in the office for hours when I arrive at a time I consider 'early'. I'm something of a morning person, but even I don't find it necessary to be at my desk at 7am. Considering the lack of decent sleep I've been getting recently, functioning normally that early would barely fall under the realm of possibility anyway.

"Is everything alright, Agent Scully?"

Momentarily disoriented, I spin around to face the voice. Doggett. I find myself still in the doorway - must have just been standing there. Wonderful - got to watch myself on that. I take in a breath, release it.

"It's nothing. Good morning," I say, moving towards the desk. As I'm about to sit down, my eyes fall upon an unexpected object. I tilt my head to find Doggett's eyes already on me. Again. I hate that look, the almost quizzical expression on his face when he's trying to figure me out, like he is now. He probably has no idea he does it. I want to call him on it, but things wouldn't improve any between us if I made it an issue; right now we need all the help we can get.

"I got a call from Supply earlier this morning saying it was ready to be picked up. I had an errand up there myself - thought I'd save you the trip." Doggett's eyes never leave my face, and I can detect a hint of apprehension there. I've tried, but I know I haven't been entirely welcoming to this new partnership. Every routine that Mulder and I shared has been disrupted, from making the coffee in the morning to whose job it was to deal with bureau personnel. I took it for granted, and now with Doggett in the picture neither one of us know where anything stands.

I search with my left hand to find the power switch on the new laptop and upon its discovery give a small smile. "I appreciate it. Thank you," I respond, looking him in the eye and trying to say with it as much conviction as possible to make sure he knows I mean it. Doggett relaxes imperceptibly, gives a barely noticeable nod, and goes back to burying himself in whatever it was he was working on before I entered.

Half aware of the laptop booting up, I think of all the things I didn't say. That Mulder would never have picked up the computer for me, because the staff at Supply were snide at times and would crack jokes for always having bureau equipment wrecked under his care. I didn't blame him - they were at least civil with me and I was used to having that be my responsibility. I glance at the laptop, and then again at Doggett. He's just as unsure about this as I am, I realize; no wonder I keep getting quizzical looks. All that we know about each other is based on outward appearances. If that's all I had to go on, I wouldn't know myself either.

* * * * *

I can't seem to keep myself grounded on anything these days. Walking down the corridor to Skinner's office, I feel precariously balanced in my surroundings. One little push is all it would take for me to go flying into the unknown. Doggett is unaware, of course; it's quite obvious that he finds some of my actions and behavior questionable, but he has neither the experience nor the authority to question me about them. I fear I will have no such luxury with Skinner. It's times like this that I miss Mulder - I didn't always feel grounded with him either, but at least his presence is steadying most of the time. I feel off-kilter with Doggett; there is no familiarity with his actions, no reassuring presence when I'm afraid I might fall, as I am afraid of now, rounding the corner into the AD's office. It must be the heels, I rationalize: I should start wearing pumps.

Even the seating arrangements have changed, I realize, as Doggett moves to settle himself in the chair that has always been customarily mine. If Skinner notices, he gives no indication. The only perceivable change I can find in this routine is the extra moment Skinner looks at Doggett and me in front of his desk before he carries on with the reason for our little visit.

As far as X-Files go, this case seems pretty tame. Skinner tries his best to make it sound important, but I can't help but wonder why our recent assignments seem so routine. There have been no new developments in the search for Mulder; every possible lead or line of investigation has been followed to its respective dead end. Maybe that is why every new case assigned feels so routine: after a case like Mulder's, everything else is anti-climatic. Or perhaps this is the consequence of new management; with Kersh calling the shots it would make sense to have Skinner be doling out only the cases upper management deemed unimportant or of no lasting consequence. He probably doesn't know what to do with us, anyway.

I follow Doggett out of Skinner's office, case file in hand. I try to ignore the questions Skinner has written all over his face on my way out.

* * * * *

A blur. I can't make sense of the landscape flying by my passenger side window. I turn back to face forward, but the empty highway in front of me isn't any more appealing than my previous view. Resigned, I lean back against my seat and close my eyes.

I don't have to see Doggett's eyes darting between me and the road to know he's doing it. I know he's curious and maybe even a little concerned, but right now I have neither the strength nor the desire to fill him in. He can think what he wants - it was a rotten case anyway. It wasn't supposed to be: light arson reports that supposedly had no known cause. Of course there was a cause, and we had the suspect all but in custody when he took a hostage - a local girl playing in her front yard - and became irrational. It turned ugly; he shot the girl before pulling the trigger on himself. An autopsy and tox screen were called for, and since the local M.E. was two towns over and overworked with a case of his own, the task fell to me.

If I never have to autopsy another blond, blue eyed little girl again, it will be too soon.

But it's over, I tell myself, and every mile in this car brings us that much closer to D.C. and my apartment, where I can just relax and not think about anything for a while...if I'm lucky. I let out a sigh without even realizing it.

Beside me, Doggett clears his throat. Not now, I think. If he were Mulder, he would have more sense than to ask what was wrong. But he's not Mulder, my mind helpfully supplies. Mulder's gone, you can't find him; and until you do, you need to treat Doggett like your partner. That's how it has to work, like it or not. I tell my mind to be quiet; I really am trying, but at times like this it's almost too much.

"Is there something I should know about here, Agent Scully?"

No, so stay the fuck out my business, I want to say. Instead, I take the more diplomatic option. "Of course not. I just wasn't expecting the case to be as bad as it was."

For a fleeting moment, I allow myself to hope that he'll let it rest at that. I don't know much about his past, and I'd prefer for him not to know much of mine. It might make situations like this easier if he had a frame of reference, but it would be just as hard telling him as it would be to look in his eyes after he knew. I honestly don't really know what he thinks of me now, and for the most part I don't concern myself about it; but I'd hate to think of how he would see me afterwards just the same.

"Well, it just seemed to me that you took the whole thing pretty hard is all."

Shit. My eyes fly open and I stare at him. "Are you telling me this case didn't affect you?" I let the rope around my frustration fly loose; at this point he can think what he wants.

"Of course it was upsetting. No one wants to see a case end like that. But I've seen worse with Homicide, as I'm sure you have from what I've heard of your past with Mulder."

Keep Mulder out of it, I want to scream. "Reading cases from a file cabinet barely scratches the surface of what they entailed - you should have learned your lesson about jumping to conclusions when you first made assumptions about Mulder. You've been assigned here less than a month - I don't think you're in any position to judge the cases or my reaction to them."

"Look, I didn't mean to offend. You've just looked run down for a while-"

"Is that what you think? That I'm 'run down'?"

"You look like you haven't gotten a full nights rest in a year." I turn my head away, back towards the window, looking for the control I fear I don't have. "I don't want to intrude, okay? Your business is your business. If I'm doing anything wrong here, tell me. I'm not Mulder; I don't know what he would say in this situation or if that's even what you're looking for. I just don't know what you're expecting from me."

Closing my eyes again seems like a safe thing to do, and I resist the urge to sigh again. "I didn't mean to sound accusatory. And it certainly wasn't my goal to make you feel alienated." Think of something, Dana.

"It's been a rough month, alright? I have no leads on Mulder, this case is not what I needed, and all I want right now is to get back to D.C." Please drop it, I think. Please.

Doggett shifts in his seat again, probably not satisfied with my excuse for an explanation but opting to let it rest for now. I all but collapse into the seat, too drained to even sit upright. I don't know if I can do this, keep this up. When did I lose it? I've always had my control, and all I know now is that I'm hanging, precariously, trying to find answers and trying to find myself. Doggett's looking for something and I'm looking for something and I don't know what to make of him, let alone myself. It's too much. What I need is a Dana Scully instruction manual, but I think they're out of print indefinitely.

* * * * *

I have to get away.

It's night and it's pouring, my clothes have soaked through completely, but at this moment my only thought is getting away. I have no idea where I am: some alley, side street, somewhere, I don't know. I don't remember how I got here, but I'd rather not stop and ask for directions right now.

Fuck - is he still behind me? I don't know. Mulder would know. Where's Mulder? I can't think, I'm out of breath; I can barely see, it's so dark.

Turn the corner. Keep running, get away, can't let him find me. On the ground. What happened? I'm on the ground, I fell, I don't know. I think I lost him. Catch my breath. My heart is pounding. Calm down. I lost him, take a breath. Breathe in, breathe out, steady. I'm wet. Look down - I'm in a puddle. Right, it's raining, that makes sense. Make sense Dana, it's ok, calm down and this will make sense and you'll remember what's going on. Deep breath. 

Back at the puddle. I lean down to look closer, there's something wrong with the puddle. I see my face in the water, only it's not my face. It's changing, every raindrop that hits the puddle changes my face. That's not right, that's not me, there's Mulder's face, why is his face my reflection? Another raindrop, Skinner. Mom. Doggett. Me, only not me. What's going on? I lean closer, closer, where's my face? Where am I?

Closer to the puddle, look closer, nose touching the water, closer in, closer....

My eyes snap open. Bedroom. My bedroom, not an alley. There never was an alley. I shut my eyes and collapse back against the damp pillow, resigned. Third time this week - and tomorrow's forecast calls for rain.

* * * * *

My first Thanksgiving alone. I suppose that after over thirty years of Thanksgivings, only having one spent apart from friends and family is pretty good, considering the odds. I just never really conceived of it actually happening: how do you cook a turkey for one? Reconsidering - it only seems lonely.

Truthfully, it's partly my fault. The rest of the family is together, out in San Diego; Mom called yesterday afternoon from the airport to let me know she landed safely. She's always made a point of doing that, I've come to expect it despite never realizing the motivation behind it. She knows something's wrong, that there are things I'm not telling her. Maybe it's her way of letting me know that she's there when I need her.

Problem is, I do need her, but every time I try to talk to her I just...can't. She knows Mulder is gone, but is still in the dark about my pregnancy. When I told her about Mulder, her expression mirrored everything I felt, as if I was looking right into what I didn't want to admit was true. I didn't think I could withstand seeing that happening again if I told her about the baby; I'm not blocking out my feelings, but I'm not strong enough for them to be reflected back at me to deal with out in the open. And it's not as if it's something I can just tell her over the phone. So now she's in California, and I'm here, and she's with family and I'm by myself.

It's just as well, I console myself. The rest of the family may be oblivious to my moods, but my mother would know in an instant. I can avoid it with Doggett, skirt the issue with Skinner, but if I were in her presence, I could not deny my mother. And I don't know if I could handle being with someone right now who saw into me better than I could myself.

* * * * *

"I don't see how you can possibly justify an investigation into this matter."

This scene is so familiar and yet not, I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Neither, I choose, as I focus back on Skinner and his mirthless expression.

"Sir, the case-"

"The case file speaks for itself. There are more pressing matters for the Bureau to investigate than - this." Skinner closes the manila folder almost forcefully with his last word. "Agent Scully, may I have a word with you in private?"

I should have seen it coming. Doggett, who is at the moment doing a wonderful job of leaving the office as unobtrusively as possible, has been hinting that perhaps I should stick to working more mainstream X-Files for a while. Of course, the most he does is hint, because he's learned by now that there are only so many issues he's allowed to question me on and get a response. The past month in the field we've been a solid team - he's not Mulder but he's probably the best partner I could ever hope for as a replacement. When we're not in the field focused on a case, however, it's a different matter, and I can tell there are times he has no idea what I'm thinking. Which would be fine with me, except the consequence is quizzical looks, trying to figure me out. It's not as if all my pursuits have been wastes - there have been a few cases that have started off sounding downright silly but have proved themselves to be worthy uses of the bureau's resources and our time. But still, I knew all along that this one was a reach at best, and it was just a matter of time before Skinner called me on it.

"Yes?" I might as well get this started.

He paused. "What is this all about?" At my silence, "Why is this happening?"

"Sir-"

"Drop the pretense." I watch as he seems to collect his thoughts, sort them through. "Talk to me; I deserve to know what's going on. Is it Doggett? The cases? I don't recognize - what's happened to you, Agent Scully?"

And that's the question. Put into words for the first time, it almost takes me aback. It takes me a minute to realize don't even realize at first that Skinner's still talking. "You're cutting yourself off from everyone around you. I barely recognize you anymore - and now you're trying to...what? Become Mulder? Take up his habits in exchange for your own? You would have dismissed this case in an instant." He looks at me, then, his eyes searching my face. "What do you need me to do? You can't function like this."

I close my eyes for an instant. "I know," I admit, but it is all I can say.

* * * * *

I sit, and I think. Trying to come up with an explanation, a reason, anything.

Philosophers during the eighteenth century believed that nothing could exist unperceived. Without another mind or 'eternal spirit' observing an object, that object would cease to exist; to be perceived was to be known, and without that mind perception existence wasn't possible. These beliefs were later expanded to include that no person could have a continuous self or personal identity. We only think that we remain intrinsically the same person over time, while in actuality our entire existence is composed of miniscule fragments, constantly changing, woven together into a semblance of continuity. As an undergrad physics major, taking the requisite liberal arts class as a graduation requirement, I didn't buy into this dogma. Of course things existed unperceived - the mere idea of objects, people, just blinking in and out of existence at random was full of scientific inaccuracies, too many to count.

But now I am not so sure. I live each day playing the roles I am cast; I read a different script with Doggett than I do with my mother, Scully is a different character with Skinner than she is by herself. Each person sees me differently, and lately I can't see myself at all. What if it is true? I barely recognize myself in the mirror anymore. Somehow I have slipped into a life that is consumed with work, searching for the truth and now, searching for Mulder.

I shouldn't need to search for myself.

*****

Thanks for reading - elabyrinthine@yahoo.com


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